


All's good in excess

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Binge Drinking, Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Movie References, Nihilism, Suicidal Thoughts, mentions of animal death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 11:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11103417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: Sequel to "Audition". Murderface sits in his filming space and thinks about life.





	All's good in excess

**Author's Note:**

> i've been in a state of writer's block recently, so this is sort of the culmination of my love for Murderface, my lack of ideas, and rewatching "Salo".

Going over the video he'd taken, it all looked pretty bad. Despite his passion for cinema, William Murderface was not meant for film. Quietly, he deleted all of his hard work. Nobody ever asked for an all-Murderface remake of "Funny Games" anyhow.

He slumped back on his couch, which was now sticky with fake blood. Maybe if he had enlisted some help, everything would've gone fine. But that'd be ridiculous. Nobody would help him with such an ambitious and frankly pointless task. A remake of "Irreversible", or "The Green Elephant", was hardly necessary, especially with the only change being that every character was played by the same ugly, overweight fuckhead. 

Maybe if Blood Ocean had some better overhead, some better direction, he could have really made it work. He'd been so fucking goddamn excited to be in a movie that he forgot to act well, and now here he was in a vast room with nothing but mannequins and props. 

Jack Daniels wet his lips, dribbling across his chin as he aimlessly binge drank. He wasn't Gaspar Noe, or Pier Paolo Passolini, or even Harmony Korine. He was just William Murderface, sad as it may have been. He knew not contentment, nor happiness. The closest he could get was silence melded with a buzzy drunken bodily pleasure. He shuddered, sinking into the couch cushions as much as he could. It was soft and warm and cozy.

Once grandpa had said to him, "My boy, 'solace' and 'solitude' are not the same thing". It was during some totally random conversation, probably about a fight he had at school, or with grandma. He'd always brushed off that advice -- at first because he believed Thunderbolt was wrong. Because back then he could only find solace in solitude, or perhaps, with his reptilian companion by his side. And perhaps, now he felt like he didn't need solace if it meant subjecting others to his presence. His body was being consumed by the cushions, or perhaps, by exhaustion. Though he had just napped, he felt no less tired. 

He figured nobody would come looking for him, even if he stayed in that big room forever and ever. After all, he was hardly of much use. Couldn't play bass, couldn't act, couldn't direct. All he could do was eat, breathe, drink, swear, shit, piss and die. Like a Tamagotchi with one option on it.

None of them even liked the movies he liked.

Or if they did, they just didn't want to watch with him.

Perhaps Skwisgaar had waxed poetic about that one time they watched "Combat Shock" together, and Murderface couldn't stop shouting at the screen. Or maybe they'd heard from Magnus way back when about how he burst into a fit of sobs through the midway point of "Salo". Or maybe they'd just heard him by himself, shuddering and cursing over copies of "Gummo" and "Dogtooth". That which was unrated and unstoppable. And that was why nobody wanted to be around him.

Maybe he'd jump clean out of his skin from the fear and die in a gooey smelly pile of musculature and intestine. All gooey and sticky like an uncooked egg. "Cannibal Holocaust". That poor turtle. The planet would be better -- the FILM would be better -- if he had been in that turtle's place.

He might've been lonely.

"Solace", "solitude". 

He'd always wanted to be in a movie.

Like "August Underground" -- the important parts of that movie, after all, were simply swearing and knowing how to hold a camera. But then he'd probably be remembered as an idiot. (Not like he wasn't already, though.)

Maybe he was in pain because he wasn't praying anymore, and instead just laid in bed, re-watching "American Mary" for the umpteenth time. Guzzling champagne and Robitussin, while "Ex-Drummer" was on his portable DVD player. But he used to pray and that didn't change much. He threw the idea out the window.

Maybe it was only his destiny. To be ugly and stupid, and to hurt, and to suffer. Like "I Stand Alone", just someone who will never meet success, but also won't fucking die. His head fell into his hands. God almighty, it felt awful to fail at everything he loved. He couldn't pay tribute to works he revered, he couldn't film, he couldn't play, he couldn't even seem to exist. Blinking and breathing, crapping and eating and hating and shouting, but not existing. Like the heavy wind that makes the windows shake. Passing through, intangibly, with little left over besides a cold sensation in the skin and loose, fluttering curtains.

"Antichrist", he thought, he was falling deeper and deeper still into the thickets of his wrinkled brain. Like a forest of trees that rose higher than the clouds, blocking out the sun, trapping him in a cage of blackness. With grass between his toes.

It sounded like he'd been for a walk there once.

Richard Martin probably dared him to, because that was just what he did. And then he must've gotten lost, and trapped, and cried, until he found his way out alone. Because nobody came looking for him -- grandpa was catatonic, and grandma didn't care. And when he got home he was covered in his own piss and puke and drenched in summer rain, hair sticking to his neck and fingers dripping. Starved. Exhausted. Hurting.

Trinity Brown was the one who had gotten him to watch "Last House on Dead End Street". He remembered because she moved to Arizona a few months afterwards and forgot to take the movie back. Which meant he'd been holding onto Trinity Brown's copy of "Last House" for nearly 20 years. His hands clammed up and his throat was tight. He still had it, too.

The jazz was cruel, though soft, it seemed to pound in his ears and brain. Like blood clots in his head. Bam. Bam. Bam. Heavy thumping, thrumming noises. He turned the music off, slamming down the remains of his whiskey. His stomach hurt.

"Piesche of shit." 

He whispered, and he took the video camera and slammed it on the floor. It shattered. He stepped on it, and it crackled like glass underneath his heavy boot. "Garbage!" He couldn't do anything right, he couldn't even return a movie. He couldn't drink and he wanted to die and disappear for a little while, sinking into the loam like a corpse in a peat bog. Please, lord in heaven. He grabbed the tripod and smashed it against the ground, over and over. For some reason tears were welling up in his eyes. It must've been the booze, all 18 bottles he'd polished off.

Sick.

He kicked the couch. "Schtupid moviesch!" He stamped on the broken camera bits. "Schtupid bassch! Schtupid everything!" Everything was stupid! Fuck! And tears were welling up in his eyes, he bawled and felt sick, burying his face in his hands. "Goddamnit!"

He buried his face in his hands.

_Hear the radio, drink your tea, and to hell with liberty._


End file.
